Roses Red and Roses White
by Lady Eleanor Boleyn
Summary: What if Marguerite of Anjou had been barren and Margaret Beaufort had been born in 1455 instead of 1443? What if Edward V had been the eldest York child rather than Elizabeth? With only nine years between them, would they have been pushed into marriage? Would the Red and White Roses have united a generation earlier than they did? Here is my take on it.
1. I: 1455 - 1464

_This Idea simply wouldn't leave me alone. What if Marguerite of Anjou had been barren and Margaret Beaufort had been born in 1455 instead of 1443? What if Edward V had been the eldest York child rather than Elizabeth?With only nine years between them, would they have been pushed into marriage? Would the Red and White Roses have united a generation earlier than they did? Here, in a short chaptered story is my take on it. Enjoy! NB: Margaret's mother's name has become Joan, because I could swear that's what it is in the White Queen and I'm too lazy to change it back to Margaret now that I've written this...  
_

**The Red And White United**

_Part I: 1455-1464_

The woman's dark brown curls were black with sweat as she groaned in pain, a groan which changed into a hollow scream of agony as the contractions worsened.

"You're doing wonderfully well, Lady Somerset, wonderfully. We'll have a boy for Lancaster before long."

The midwife's cheery tones grated on the expectant mother's nerves, but before she could protest, another wave of pain gripped her, forcing a guttural howl from the back of her throat.

As though a dam had been broken between Lady Somerset's legs, a mess of water and blood gushed out, soaking the sheets and bearing with it a small, whimpering babe.

"Now then, what did I tell you?" The midwife exclaimed, picking the child up and wrapping it tightly in wide strips of white swaddling linen, "That didn't take long at all, did it?"

Lady Somerset shook her head, "Is it a boy?" she asked croakily, hoarse with screaming.

The attendant's hesitation was answer enough for Lady Somerset. "It's not, is it?"

"No Madam. It's a bonny, healthy girl. A little small perhaps, but we'll soon feed her up, you may be sure of that."

Lady Somerset bit the inside of her cheek and nodded, "You'd better go and inform my husband."

"Yes, Madam." The midwife laid her charge in her mother's arms, curtsied and left the room. A few minutes later, a large, burly man appeared in the doorway.

"Joan. I hear we have a baby daughter."

"Yes, John. I am sorry. I had prayed for a boy."

"Of course you did. We all did. A boy for Lancaster. A boy to be Cousin Henry's heir, since the Queen seems incapable of giving him one. But never mind. Girls are good for alliances. As long as a boy's next, this little maid will be useful to her cousin one day, I don't doubt it."

"Nor do I," Joan replied, relieved to hear her husband taking the news so well. In the face of it, she dared to push her luck just that little bit further. "I'd like to name her Margaret, for the Queen."

John considered for a moment, then lifted his shoulders carelessly. "Why not? It's as good a name as any. After all, this little girl could be Queen one day. If Cousin Henry ever manages to sire a son on his wife, then our girl can be the lad's wife. His Queen. For if we of Lancaster stand together, there's no way the Yorks could ever supplant us, even with Cousin Henry's health as fragile as it is."

He bent, brushed Joan's lips with his own and tapped little Margaret's nose with the tip of his forefinger.

"You be a good girl for your mother now, understand, and a good example to your brother when he arrives. My little Margaret Regina."

Then he strode from the room without so much as a backwards glance.

* * *

Margaret's brother never did arrive, however. Despite her parents best efforts, she remained their only child.

In the autumn of 1461, her father was called upon by Queen Margaret to ride out with her in order to defend her husband's throne from the Pretender, Edward, Duke of York, styling himself Edward IV, and his general, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick.

Margaret was only a child, barely into long gowns, but unknown to her parents, she was crouched behind a pillar in the castle doorway, listening to their hushed exchange just moments before her father rode away into the pearly dawn light.

"Joan...If God forbid, anything should happen...Should we lose, make peace with the Yorks. Our girl is destined to be Queen, I'm sure of it. Promise me you'll do whatever it takes to keep her safe and get her on the throne."

"But John, God rides with Lancaster. Surely. He has to. We're old King Edward's heirs, since Richard was without children. We come from his third son, John of Gaunt."

"These are uncertain times, Joan. Promise me."

Her father's voice was harder than Margaret had ever heard it. Her mother nodded.

"I promise. Godspeed, My Lord Husband. Godspeed and may He keep you."

"Thank you, Joan. May He be with you and Margaret."

John knelt briefly for his wife's blessing, then swung up on his horse and clattered out of the yard, on his way to meet with Queen Margaret and her forces.

As he went, little Margaret offered up a fervent prayer.

"Sweet Jesus, please. In Your Mercy, keep Father safe from harm. Bring him back to us unharmed. But above all, do Your Will, Lord, not mine. If it is Your Will, as Father thinks it is, that I become England's Queen, I pray that You might guide me and show me that it is so. Keep Father safe and make him Your instrument to prepare me for Queenship. I beg You."

It was a prayer she was to repeat every night for weeks. In vain. John Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, slain on the field at Towton, when Edward of York proved himself victorious, never came home.

* * *

Three years on, another woman was writhing in the throes of childbirth. But this time the circumstances were different. This wasn't the Duchess of Somerset giving birth to some distant, bastard line cousin of the sick King's, this was Queen Elizabeth of England. The child in her womb was the future of the York Dynasty.

When it slid out, accompanied by the usual chorus of anguished shrieks and groans from its mother, there was a stunned silence, followed by a delighted round of applause.

"Well done, Your Majesty. You've done it! You have a boy. A beautiful, healthy boy! A York boy for England!"

"A York boy for England," Queen Elizabeth crowed hoarsely, her grey-blue eyes alight with triumph. "God be Thanked! I've done my duty. I've done my duty and sick Henry and his barren Queen can never hurt us now."


	2. Ii: 1464-1466

_Part II: 1464-1466_

Elizabeth Woodville's boy was christened with all the pomp and circumstance that befitted a Prince of England, being invested with the titles Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall, Earl of March and Baron Plantagenet-Woodville of Raby in the same ceremony.

No sooner was he christened than his parents were discussing possible matches for him.

"I favour a French or Scottish Princess for our son," Edward commented, dandling the babe in his arms. Elizabeth shook her head, even as she smiled at the picture her doting husband made, rocking their boy like that. "Not for Edward, Ned."

"Why not? The Scottish and French have always been our enemies. We could stop that with Edward's marriage into one of their houses. We could bind them to us. Don't you want your son to be known as a Peacemaker King?"

"Of course I do, though I also hope that, should he need to be, he'll be as brave and skilled and noble a warrior as his father is," Elizabeth soothed, "But let's start with peace in our own country first. Henry of Lancaster's only heiress is a girl of nine. If we married her to our son, all we'd have to do would be to defeat Margaret and her rabble in battle once more, which of course, you'll do the moment they stop being cowards for long enough to actually turn and fight. Then we'd be unassailable. Warwick's daughters could be married to your brothers or foreign nobles to keep Warwick on our side. That's all we need. No one would dare touch us after that."

Elizabeth's voice was saccharine sweet. Her eyes were demure, trusting. No one looking at her would have guessed for an instant that she had spent the past night, as she had every night since her son's birth, sleeplessly plotting with her mother and brother how to keep her son's inheritance safe.

King Edward was putty in her hands.

"Why, my love, do you always have better ideas than the whole of my Council put together? I'll write to Scotland on the morrow. Warwick's daughter Isabel could be Queen of Scotland before we're very much older."

Leaning in, he sealed the bargain with a deep, passionate kiss.

* * *

Messengers rode between London and Edinburgh almost fortnightly for the next two years, but all the endeavours almost came to naught. Reluctant to take a Yorkist bride for as long as the Lancastrian King roamed free, James III almost turned his back on Isabel Neville and married Margaret of Denmark instead. Luckily for Elizabeth's ambitions, however, the Earl of Warwick apprehended the old King wandering the moors of County Durham one morning, where he had been abandoned by his wife, Queen Margaret as she fled to her homeland to try to gather support for his cause.

After that, everything happened very quickly. James was persuaded to break off his negotiations for the Danish Princess's hand and take Isabel for his wife with a generous dowry of 15,000 crowns and the agreement of a seven year truce between Scotland and England. It was agreed that the pair should be married by proxy at Christmas 1466, before Isabel progressed North to Edinburgh the following summer.

The happy news, however, was marred for the bride to be herself by the fact that her family's patriarch, the Earl of Warwick had lost his life in securing King Henry. Bandits loyal to the Lancastrians had attacked his train in a failed attempt to free their King from his clutches.

King Edward and Queen Elizabeth showed themselves much grieved, at least in public. They commissioned a grand monument to be put up to him along the bank of the Thames at Chelsea and another deep in the streets of York, as well as hosting a large public funeral, one almost grand enough to be a King's.

Nonetheless, it was always made extremely clear that, though their hearts went out to the Nevilles, their planned great Christmas feast would still take place and so too would Isabel's marriage by proxy to the King of Scotland, scheduled for Twelfth Night. Family grief would not be allowed to supersede national policy.

* * *

Nor would delicate health or tender age. At the same time as her husband's messengers were riding North to Middleham Castle and Edinburgh, Queen Elizabeth's servants were making for the Beaufort castle in Somerset.

"Her Majesty insists that Lady Margaret come to Court for Christmas and then resides there until such time as her marriage to Prince Edward takes place," Sir Thomas Grey, brother to Her Majesty's former husband, and one of the many who, while once professing to be a loyal Lancastrian, now boasted York colours on his collar, explained.

"And why should she do that?" Lady Joan argued, "My daughter is scarcely eleven years old; not even legally a woman. His Highness is scarcely more than a babe in arms. They can't wed yet, so why shouldn't my daughter remain in my care for a while longer?"

Unfortunately for Margaret, Sir Thomas was a seasoned diplomat. It took him no time at all to size up the woman in front of him and choose the appropriate words to coax her into agreement.

"Ah, yes, of course. But Lady Margaret must be brought up as befits a future Queen. She must get to know her future husband and the Court that will be hers one day. Her Majesty personally asked me to assure you that your daughter will be publicly honoured as the Princess of Wales from the day she goes to Court. Furthermore, Their Majesties will give their blessing for you to remarry to Viscount Welles. They are also willing to pay for Lady Margaret's upkeep out of their own pockets."

His last words swung it for Joan. For all her admirable qualities, including her deep fondness for her daughter, she was a greedy woman. The enticement of having another husband to provide security for her after all these years of precarious widowhood, was too great to resist. _"Besides",_ she told herself, _"Margaret has never felt happy here. She's never been particularly close to me. Too much her father's daughter for that. Too much sense of her own greatness. She'll be far happier at Court, where she can be honoured as she feels is her due."_

She nodded, "Take her then, if you want to. But I warn you, she's a thoroughly stubborn little creature."

* * *

So it was that Margaret, quite without warning, found herself being bundled into a jolting litter, transported up to Windsor and made to join the York Court for Christmas.

On her first evening, she was shown into Queen Elizabeth's Presence Chamber. She just had time to clasp her hands and pray to the Lord for strength, "_Let me behave as a future Queen of England should," _ before the doors opened, she was pushed across the threshold and the doors closed again, leaving her trapped with the woman her father had always privately referred to as 'The Bad Queen'.

"Ah, Princess Margaret. So glad you could join us."

Margaret couldn't help herself, despite feeling as though she were betraying her father's memory by doing so, she fell to her knees, overcome by the aura of greatness the tall woman in front of her was exuding, "My Lady Queen and Mother," she greeted.

"Well, your manners are pretty enough, I suppose. Get up and let me see you."

Margaret did as she was told. Pirouetting slowly, she came round to face the Queen once more, though she kept her eyes demurely lowered, as protocol demanded, both because she was an eleven year old girl and Queen Elizabeth was a grown woman and because she was a mere subject being granted an audience by the favour of her Queen.

"Hmm. You'll do, I suppose. A little thin, perhaps, but your bloodline makes up for that and besides, no doubt you'll fill out by the time my son is old enough to have any real need of you."

Not knowing what to say to that, Margaret said nothing at all, only nodding when the Queen looked down at her and said, half-sharply, half-tenderly, "I suppose you'd like to meet your future husband?"

"If it please Your Majesty."

"Come along then. We'll pay a visit to the nursery."

The Queen heaved herself out of her padded chair – Margaret noticed her belly was slightly curved as she stood - and swept from the room. Her ladies scurried in her wake, carrying Margaret along with them.

Behind two heavy carved doors was the nursery. The eleven year old's heart hammered in her chest as she waited for the Queen to order them swung open. It seemed to her that Queen Elizabeth was delaying deliberately, in order to prolong her anxious uncertainty about her future.

At last, however, they were let into the nursery and the wait was over.

"Mama!" An imperious little voice rang out high above the hushed murmurs of the nursery attendants acknowledging their Queen, there was the patter of little feet and Prince Edward appeared, flushed with excitement at the sight of his mother.

"Edward, my darling boy!" Kneeling down, the Queen opened her arms to her precious son, welcoming him into them.

Having cuddled him enough to satisfy both their cravings, she turned him in her hold to face Margaret.

"This is your future wife, Edward, Lady Margaret Beaufort. What do you say to her?"

"Pleased 'oo mee' 'oo," Edward smiled gummily up at Margaret, clenching a fist and extending it royally. It was clear he expected her to kiss it and so Margaret did, sensing his mother's eyes plunging into her like daggers up to the hilt as she went down on one knee before her future husband.

"Your Highness."

Edward beamed, "Mee' Li'a'be'?" he asked, turning wide, innocent eyes on first Margaret and then his mother. Queen Elizabeth chuckled softly. "Yes. Why don't you show her, Eddie?"

At Margaret's puzzled look, she explained, "He wants to show you his sister."

Margaret nodded, getting up from her knees and padding after the Prince as he toddled over the opposite corner of the nursery, where a cradle stood by the fire, being rocked by one of the many women employed by the King and Queen to take care of their children.

"Still," Prince Edward demanded, "Up."

The woman obligingly ceased rocking the cradle and lifted him up so that he could see inside. Margaret, tall enough to see inside without assistance, peered over the side to see a small infant with hair so fair it was almost white in the weak winter sunshine. The baby gurgled serenely up at her.

"Pwincess Li'a'be. My sista," Prince Edward announced, waving proudly towards the cradle and its occupant.

"She's lovely," Margaret replied, and she wasn't lying. Princess Elizabeth really was the loveliest little thing she had ever seen.

A quiet click alerted Margaret to the fact that the Queen and her ladies were leaving the nursery. They were abandoning her to the mercies of her new husband and his attendants.


	3. III: 1466-1480

_Part III: 1466-1480_

So began one of the strangest periods of young Margaret's life. In public, she was honoured and feted as befitted the girl who would become the Princess of Wales one day. Indeed, she was called the Princess of Wales already, even though she wasn't officially married to Edward yet. Behind closed doors, however, she was treated as though she was no more than Prince Edward's humblest servant.

At first that meant wiping up his messes when he spilled something, changing his underclothes when, failing to reach the water closet or the chamber pot in time, he wet or soiled himself, or worst of all, trying to bathe him. He hated being bathed and was vociferous in his anger whenever Margaret tried to force him into the tub.

Being a vigorous two year old, he was really far too much for a sickly eleven year old to handle, but his Lady Governess, the Queen's younger sister, Lady Martha Woodville, was adamant, saying "It is a wife's duty to do such things for her husband, should he require it. It is just as well for the Beaufort brat to be put in her place now, while she's still malleable enough to learn it."

King Edward did attempt to inquire after the girl once or twice, so he could feel he had upheld his side of the bargain with Lady Welles, Lady Somerset as was, but the Queen always distracted him, whispering in his ear, "These are women's matters, Ned. Leave them to my sister. Besides, as long as the children are healthy and our boy is happy, what does it matter?"

Besides, the King was too busy producing heirs to worry about how they were being brought up. Princess Cecily joined the nursery in early summer, then Princess Mary the year after. Princes Richard and George were born within fifteen months of one another, before Princesses Katherine, Anne, Margaret and Bridget.

With his father's attention elsewhere, the slightly chubby, imperious Prince Edward Margaret had first met in 1466, was left free to grow into a handsome, athletic lad with two sides to his character.

When he needed to be – when he and Margaret were in public, for instance, or when his Uncle Anthony was instructing him in the arts of war, - he was bright, inquisitive, polite, even charming. When crossed, however, and in the safe haven of the nursery or his private apartments in Ludlow Castle, the Prince of Wales's primary residence, he was nothing short of a tyrannical despot.

He thought nothing of terrorising his younger siblings, except Prince Richard and Princess Elizabeth, both of whom, for some reason, he inexplicably adored. Nor did he think anything of using tears and tantrums to get his way. He often kicked and screamed at his governess when she tried to deny him something, once even going so far as to threaten her with dismissal. But his favourite target by far was Margaret, whom, he had figured out very quickly, he could hurt without any fear of reprisal.

When he was younger, he would merely use his power against her to send her on any number of fool's errands, complaining that whatever she fetched him wasn't what he'd wanted or hadn't come quickly enough, but one day, when he was six and Margaret a woman of fifteen, she came across him torturing a kitten by forcing it to walk across hot coals fresh from the kitchen fires.

"Lord Edward!" she gasped in horror, "You mustn't do that! It's cruel!"

"Why not? It's fun. And besides, don't we have dominion over all God's creatures?" he asked her, laughing coldly, a sound far too grown up for his age, "Cats are God's creatures too, are they not?"

"Yes and we are the stewards of creation. Leave it alone!"

"Beg me. Beg me on bended knee."

Margaret's heart sank. Was this really the boy she was promised to? Offering up a silent prayer to her Lord, she sank to her knees.

"Husband. I beg you. Please. Have mercy on the creature."

"Fine," Edward sighed, letting the kitten go as though he were doing her the greatest favour in the world, "But you'll have to take its place."

Margaret's head snapped up. For all that she was nearly sixteen, she looked little more than a terrified child as she begged cravenly, "What? No! Your Grace, please!"

"You're my wife. You have to do as I say. Get up and walk the coals."

"Husband..."

"Walk them."

Weeping, praying to God to keep her safe and hale to become Queen, Margaret had no choice but to walk the coals.

Pain seared through her feet, almost rendering her unconscious. She bit her lip, determined not to cry out. Edward laughed scornfully at the sight of her face twisted in agony.

"You're such a hag, no wonder no one wants to marry you."

Margaret opened her mouth to retort, for once not caring that it was beneath the future Queen to trade jibes with a boy nine years her junior, but instead of saying anything, she keeled over and passed out.

A week later, she had to dance at her and Edward's double wedding with Anne Neville and the Duke of Gloucester as though she hadn't a care in the world; as though she was delighted to be becoming Margaret, Princess of Wales.

* * *

Thankfully for Margaret, the lure of becoming Queen was an image, a hope, strong enough to sustain her when she needed it – even on Prince Edward's worst days. And it had to be said, being Princess of Wales had its compensations. She was honoured, at least in public, with the best dresses, the best seat next to the King and Queen at entertainments, and, being a married woman, she had almost complete control over her own affairs, at least while her husband was still a minor.

Yes, it was true, once Margaret had resigned herself to being her spoilt husband's vessel through which he could vent his anger; seeing it as the penance she had to pay before God viewed her worthy of being his anointed Queen, her life as a York Princess was more or less bearable.

Until, of course, Edward was old enough to want his marital rights.

He was fifteen the first time he took her.

He gave her no warning, merely marched into her rooms one night, dragged her up from her prayers and tossed her on to the bed, growling, "I need a son and you are going to give me one. Now."

Margaret had no choice but to squeeze her eyes shut and pray for strength as she was forced to endure her young husband's brutal thrusts.

Princess Cecily was born nine months later.


	4. IV: 1483

_Part IV: June 1483_

"_Finally,"_ Margaret thinks, standing still before the mirror as her ladies dress her in her coronation robes of cloth of silver, "_Finally, the day is here and I can be the woman Papa always promised me I would be. Queen Margaret of England."_

Yes. The day she has longed for and prayed for as far back as she can remember has come at last. In a matter of hours, she, Margaret Beaufort, daughter to the Duke of Suffolk, will be Queen. God's anointed Queen. And that is something not even her spoiled boy of a husband can take away from her.

With that thought in mind, Margaret hurries down to the floor below hers in the Tower to see how her children are coping with the excitement of the day.

Two year old Princess Cecily is as calm as you could expect a young child in her position to be, playing happily with her spinning top and submitting to her mother's kiss and embrace when she is expected to, but Margaret's son is anything but calm.

Five month old Richard, named for his Uncle, the only man who can anger his father and survive relatively unscathed, is yelling in his nurse's arms when Margaret enters.

"He's been like this all morning, Madam," the poor, exhausted woman explains, "I can't put him down for an instant. I just tried and...well, what you see is the result."

Nodding, Margaret reaches out for her son, hoping that his mother's touch will soothe him enough for him to be changed and carried down to the litter he and his sister are to share with their governess for the coronation procession.

Unfortunately, she achieves the exact opposite. Richard's roars of protest seem to redouble at her touch. He arches his back, howling to be returned to his nurse. Eventually, Margaret has to give in, hiding her pain at her son's rejection of her. He is most definitely a York boy.

"Margaret."

Her husband's voice cuts through their son's raging bellows as easily as a hot knife through butter. "Are you ready? Or would you rather stay here and hide in the nursery like the nursemaid you are?"

"No, I am ready," Margaret returns equably, spinning around and taking his reluctantly proffered arm with grace. Edward doesn't want her at his side today, she is sure. If it was left to him, his consort of choice would be young Jacquetta Grey, his younger half-cousin on his mother's side. But they are cousins, and besides, Margaret was Edward's wife long before they even met.

As such, Jacquetta can never be more than Edward's mistress; her children, should she have any, no more than his bastards. It is she, Margaret, who will be Edward's Queen and mother to the lawful Princes and Princesses until the day she dies.

And so it is she, Edward's hated wife, with whom Edward has to share his coronation day.

It is she, not Jacquetta, who rides alongside him to Westminster, watching the pageants on the way.

It is she, not Jacquetta, who sits upon the throne above the Stone of Scone, chrism oil glistening upon her hands, feet, hair and breast, to receive a silver crown inlaid with rubies on her head and the sceptres of the sovereign into her grip.

Above all, it is she, not Jacquetta, who now has the right to sign herself 'Margaret Regina', or rather 'Margaret, Queen of England'.

Just like her father always believed she would.


End file.
